


the pumpkin spice must flow

by lazulisong



Series: sam deserves better than these assholes [7]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Coffee, Gen, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Starbucks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 04:38:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2568470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazulisong/pseuds/lazulisong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky takes baby steps out into the world. Sam's pretty proud of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the pumpkin spice must flow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [verity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verity/gifts).



> November hates me like, super a lot, so here is a drunken finishing and also posting of a really dumb episode of Sam's Stupid Life.
> 
> Can't find where I put the panel where Tony lets everybody in the world know that Steve dances around to the Andrews Sisters in his underpants but thanks, Tony. Thanks.

Sam came in and almost tripped over Bucky, _again_. Bucky opened one eye and glared at him half-heartedly. He looked really comfortable and warm, sprawled on the sheepskin rug Sam had finally convinced him to use, taking up most of the entry way's sun spot.

He was also, as usual, bareass naked, but Sam was almost resigned to that by now. "Seriously, JB?" he said. "Not even yoga pants?"

Bucky closed his eyes and turned away. His dick flopped against the sheepskin, and Sam gave a silent prayer of thanks that Bucky used it now. Hysterically scrubbing the floor after Bucky had put his dick all over it had gotten old super fast. 

"Come on," said Sam unsympathetically. "I got groceries to bring in, you gotta put on pants."

Bucky sighed deeply and rolled to his feet in one fluid motion. He pulled on the yoga pants and shirt from where he'd folded them up when he picked the sunspot, and toed on his boots. That meant he was having a pretty good day, so Sam let him follow him to the car and help him carry the groceries in -- the three of them generated approximately five fucktons of groceries every week. Bucky even managed to smile at one of the hipster moms running very slowly past their brownstone. 

Sam dropped his bags down and said, "I gotta take the Zip Car back, you wanna come with?" 

"I have to change clothes," said Bucky. It wasn't a no.

"That's fine, I'll put the perishables in the fridge," said Sam. "Go. Become less naked. Please." 

Bucky went upstairs to -- please, dear God, _please_ \-- put on more clothing, hopefully including underwear, and Sam began stuffing the fridge. Sam ate a fair amount himself, but Steve's caloric needs were insane, and Bucky's only slightly less. Also, Bucky had one of the lowest appetites Sam had ever seen and lived mostly on Ensure and some hideous concoction that they had pulled from the HYDRA files. Steve hated it, silently and miserably. Bucky didn't appear to like it much either, but he would take it when he wasn't interested in any other food, so Sam made it for him. 

Bucky came downstairs in thick denim jeans and one of Steve's sweaters, the one that one of Steve's USO ladybros had started knitting for him on tour and then never got to him after he went on active duty, and laid aside after he went into the ice. Seventy years later Steve got a package in the mail and there was the sweater, wool as good as the day she'd started on it on a train to Des Moines. 

It was Steve's favorite sweater, and Bucky was forever taking it and wandering around with it all soft and draped around his still too-skinny frame. Steve always looked torn between irritation and desperately needing to bundle up Bucky in his arms. Sam briefly considering doing a weapon check and then shrugged mentally. Bucky was nearly as good at hiding weapons as Nat was, and it was pretty useless to sweep him for weapons when his left arm was always his most deadly one. 

He didn't seem to be very armed, at least; one of those parachute cord bracelets, some sort of coiled metal thing holding his hair back, a heavy belt holding his jeans up, and whatever was holstered in the boots he was carrying. Sam himself was carrying a knife and thanks to copious quantities of Tony Stark's money, could carry concealed if he really wanted to, but he liked to be optimistic about things like that. "You gonna set off a metal detector?" he said.

"No," said Bucky, and then, like he was trying to be strictly honest, "not one in Park Slope."

"Fair enough," said Sam.

Bucky took point outside to the car and examined it suspiciously like he'd be able to tell if it had been booby trapped in the time Sam had been inside putting things away. Sam supposed it was technically possible but he didn't know how Bucky thought he was going to be able to tell.

Bucky let him drive the car, which was nice because Bucky's driving skills were mostly composed of combat situations and also getting away after assassinating someone, which was fine in context but less than suitable for ordinary driving in Brooklyn with small children and lawyers around. Instead, he kept a suspicious watch on everything around them.

“We're probably not going to be attacked in broad daylight,” said Sam mildly.

Bucky slanted a look over at him.

"Okay, we might," said Sam. "But let's hope for the best for once, yeah?"

Bucky snorted.

\---

The Zip Car was across the street from a Starbucks. It was a pretty nice one, as they went: it had squashy seating for people who were bent earnestly over their laptops or talking to each other about how they were just so stuck on this scene, they really couldn't _feel_ what their character wanted to do, you know? or talking about how this piece of code was just so fucked up, dude, or talking about the tax codes for multinationals and comparing lack of hours of sleep, like it was a contest.

It also had long tables and power outlets, and the staff seemed pretty nice, even if the guy barista was convinced that a bowtie made him look sophisticated instead of like a dipshit.

Sam said, "You want to get some coffee before we walk back?"

Bucky stared at the wide windows and glass doors, at the hipsters with their giant Timbuk2 and Chrome bags, at their baggy flannel and places to hide weapons, and then he looked at Sam, helplessly. 

"We could tell Steve about it tonight," said Sam. "But if you don't feel ready, we can go home and eat his share of the ice cream. You did good coming with me to drop off the car, man."

Bucky straightened up his back. "I can do it."

Sam didn't thump him on the back, but he grinned at him delightedly. "We'll be quick," he promised. "You think you can pick something out, or do you want me to pick?"

Bucky said, "I dunno."

"That's fine," said Sam. "C'mon, before you lose your nerve, okay?" 

Bucky marched in grimly beside Sam, looking like he was going to his own execution. The store was relatively empty, with only a lady with a running stroller and a baby and a few serious-looking hipsters typing on their MacBooks while they listened to God knew what fashionably disharmonious shit through headphones worth more than the rent of Sam's first apartment. He made it okay through the store but balked at the menu board and the chipper young lady smiling from behind the counter.

"Hi!" she chirped. "What can I get for you today?"

Bucky took an involuntary step back. 

"Two grande pumpkin spice lattes," said Sam. "And, uh, two birthday cake-pops."

The girl said, "That will be fifteen dollars, please," and Bucky winced. 

Sam pulled out his StarkCard and handed it to her. He liked being friends with Tony Stark's money, not only because there was always an exciting chance that Colonel Rhodes would be around looking long-suffering at Stark. Apparently there was a wince-worthy file or two about Bucky and Howard Stark's involvement in the Winter Soldier Project in the SHIELD files, and Stark felt like his best option was throwing money at him until he felt less guilty about his father's legacy.

Sam could have told him that it wasn't going to make him feel better, but it was kind of nice not having to pay for shit on his own dime. 

"You want to find us a good seat, JB?" he said. Bucky looked relieved at being given a task. He moved off and looked around carefully. Sam watched him out of the corner of his eye as he signed the receipt and added a very generous tip. Bucky had pretty specific requirements for a good place to sit in public. His back had to be to the wall. The sightlines had to be clear. He preferred to have a hard backed chair because it was easier to get up and defend himself if he needed to. He also liked to be within eyeshot of any babies or dogs in the area, which was probably the only personal inclination Sam had ever seen him express in a public area. 

There was an alcove area free in the back of the store, with a hard backed chair, a small table, and an armchair. Bucky made for it, looked around carefully, and then sat down in the hard chair, staring out of the window at a large Doberman sort of dog sitting with an air of bored patience for its human to return.

Sam got their coffees and cake pops and went back to where Bucky was sitting rigidly, like he was afraid lest someone catch him off guard. He handed one latte to Bucky and sat down in the soft armchair. He put his own latte down and pulled out the cake-pops. "These are pretty good," he said. "They're really sweet, though."

Bucky accepted it and sniffed it. Then he took a tiny nibble of the pink frosting, wrinkled his nose, and a further tiny nibble of the cake filling. His nose stayed wrinkled for a minute more, and then it slowly relaxed and he nibbled at the cake-pop very slowly, like he had to make sure it lasted the entire day.

Some days Sam genuinely couldn't figure out where Bucky got most of his issues from. Like, obviously there was the whole brainwashed, traumatized assassin fun, but reading between the lines of what Steve said, he had obviously started out with enough weirdness in his head to keep three psychologists busy for thirty years each. 

The weirdest thing was that Steve obviously had no idea about it. Like, okay, they were best friends or whatever, but still, Bucky had apparently spent most of the Depression lying about how much food he had, where he had gotten it from, and how hungry he was, and keeping Steve from realizing that he was lying about it, which was partly a testimony to Steve's blind faith in him and mostly a testimony to Bucky's acting skills. The wonder was that the poor bastard wasn't even more fucked up over food than he was. 

Still, he seemed to like the cake-pop, which was good. Sam ate his in a couple of bites so Bucky would stop just nibbling at his own: another one of his issues was that he would not eat if he thought someone else was going to want his food. It was terrible around Steve. They'd eventually accepted that Steve would have to take his full share and eat it with Bucky watching every movement like a hawk, and then push his plate away with at least a bite left over. Then, and only then, would Bucky eat his own food. 

Shit was fucked up, as Sam's counselor used to say, and you just gotta deal.

With Sam obviously through with his own share, Bucky started nibbling more rapidly. It should have been funny watching him eat it so delicately, but it was actually sort of sad.

He finished it and put the stick down carefully on the empty paper sack, then picked up the pumpkin spice latte and examined it suspiciously. Sam had been through this song and dance with him before. He waited patiently while Bucky smelled it carefully and took one tiny sip. His eyebrows stayed drawn and suspicious for a minute before they relaxed and he took a longer sip.

Sam did a mental fist bump and calculated the amount of calories he was about to get down Bucky's throat. He kept a straight face, though. If Bucky thought he was being managed he would probably refuse to take another sip. 

He took a drink of his own latte and watched as Bucky sucked down his own. He looked faintly betrayed when it was finished, and Sam said, very casually, "We could get you a frappuccino. Lots of whip on that."

Bucky visibly hesitated, torn between like seventy years of not expressing an opinion about something he liked and a pumpkin spice frappuccino. 

"We could make Tony pay for it," said Sam.

Bucky despised Tony, in a distant sort of way: he knew he had to put up with him if he wanted any upgrades or maintenance on his arm, but he had heard the story about the first time Tony and Steve had met and he was never going to forget it, or forgive Tony.

"I'll get you a decaf venti," said Sam, standing up. 

Bucky shrugged.

\---

Bucky drank the venti really slowly, so by the time they walked home it was nearly dusk. Sam stuck his hands in his pockets and enjoyed the rare peace. Probably tomorrow -- or tonight, around two am -- he or Steve would get a call that someone needed their help or Bucky would have a nightmare and everything would be horrible, but for now it was a beautiful fall day and Bucky was no more paranoid than any other combat veteran, and Sam could relax. Bucky even moved his mouth in an upward direction at a baby sitting out on a door stoop with its mother and a large dog, eating it's own toes.

Then they got home and heard the strains of the Andrews Sisters advising people that they could just hit the road.

Sam looked at Bucky.

Bucky looked at Sam.

Sam pulled out his phone, turned on the camera, and they slunk quietly into the foyer and toed off their shoes before moving with exquisite, silent care to the living room. 

Sam got thirty seconds of priceless footage of Captain America swinging his groove thang in boxer briefs to the Andrews Sisters before Steve shook it around to face the door and caught sight of them.

Sam hit stop on the recording and tossed the phone to Bucky. "Run!" he said, even as Steve lunged toward them and Bucky caught the phone and bolted toward his safe area in the attic.

Steve almost beat the crap out of him, but it was totally worth it for the way Bucky cackled the entire way to safety.

**Author's Note:**

> also old netbook is old so please scuse typos I will attempt to fix them tomorrow when I am not in an advanced state of sulk.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] the pumpkin spice must flow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2611463) by [lazulisong](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazulisong/pseuds/lazulisong), [reena_jenkins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reena_jenkins/pseuds/reena_jenkins)




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